


See the Red

by WetSammyWinchester



Series: Kink Bingo Fills [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Porn, Breathplay, Caning, Comeplay, Dom Cain, Dom Sam, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, Flogging, M/M, Mark of Cain, Restraints, Rough Sex, Season/Series 09, Sub Dean, Very reluctant Dom Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-12
Updated: 2017-09-30
Packaged: 2018-11-13 03:04:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11175657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WetSammyWinchester/pseuds/WetSammyWinchester
Summary: Putting himself at the mercy of a Knight of Hell was probably not the best idea Dean ever had, but it was better than the alternative.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First chapter written for spnkinkbingo prompt caning (pairing Dean/Cain), second chapter for come play (Wincest). Thanks to silver9mm for being such a love, a friend and an amazing beta on chapter one.

“Why are you here, Dean?” 

Cain's voice was calm and deep behind that crystal tumbler. Blue eyes watched him over the rim, patient as a stone for a response.

Dean resisted the urge to scratch at the Mark on his arm. The burn under his skin was a constant companion now. Cain took another sip from the glass without a word, settled deep in the red leather wing chair.

“I need your help. You lived with it,” Dean said, voice rough. “Show me how to control it.”

Cain placed the glass on a coaster and sighed. “Where is your brother, Dean?”

“None of your business.”

Sam thought he was on a simple salt-and-burn case, so Dean kept dodging his calls. Instead, he had driven for two days to the Virginia woods, unsure if the spellwork to find Cain's new location had worked until he saw the apiaries in the field. 

In the blink of an eye, the Knight stood in front of him. He examined Dean's arm with the Mark, his grey-streaked hair falling over his eyes as his thumb rubbed against the ridged edges. The cool touch felt good on Dean's hot skin.

Cain dropped Dean's arm, a half-smile playing on his lips. “And why would I want to help you?”

“You know what this is like,” Dean said, looking around the room, at anything that wasn't Cain. “C'mon, don't make me beg.”

Cain rubbed along the side of his beard, as if considering the thought. “There is something that helped me through the years. Something Colette would do to give me focus.”

“Whatever it is, I'll do it,” Dean agreed. Hell, he would have said yes to Cain cutting off his arm with a dull pocket knife to end this.

“You probably won't like it, but at least I'll get some enjoyment, especially since you tracked me down in my home. Again.”

Cain crooked his eyebrow before he turned to walk into the bedroom. Dean shook his head before following behind. 

Putting himself at the mercy of a Knight of Hell was probably not the best idea Dean ever had, but it was better than the alternative he was facing.

***

“You'll need to take off your clothes, Dean.”

Dean frowned at the switch in Cain's hands. It was thin, probably rattan, and didn't seem like it would do much damage. But looks could be deceiving.

“And you think this will help me, how?”

“Pain provides a distraction and a release. It will help mute the anger,” Cain said. The Knight tapped the switch across his thigh and smiled, a thin row of white teeth showing through his beard. Some base instinct buried in Dean wanted to run but he had to resist. Too much was riding on this.

Dean pulled his flannel and t-shirt over his head, dropping them on the floor. As he went to unbuckle his belt, he looked up to find the Knight's eyes crawling over him. Those blue eyes were hungry, like Dean was a prime cut of meat. 

Cain made no move to get rid of his jacket and vest, but nodded at Dean to continue. Dean wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans before finishing with the buckle and shimmying out of his jeans and underwear. His nipples peaked in the cool air and he rubbed at one absently as he turned to look at the waist-high bench that Cain had pulled into the middle of the room. 

A black leather seat curved up like a saddle across the top of the sturdy wooden frame, making Dean think of a bar stool from some honky tonk, until you looked down at the leather restraints attached to each leg of the stand. 

Dean licked his lips and set his palms flat against the seat.

“Do you need me to tie you down?” the Knight asked.

Dean eyelashes fluttered as he fought with his instincts once more, before nodding yes. 

“That's a good boy. The first time can be overwhelming, so I think it would be best given your current condition.” Cain placed one hand on Dean's bare back, guiding him into place. “I don't imagine we need a safeword.”

Confusion hit Dean. Safewords were for rough sex and scenes, and this was… not that, was it? This was about a way to funnel the anger building up inside of him, finding a target that was not his brother.

Sam's face, cracked open with concern and disgust over a bunch of dead criminals, flooded in at that moment. _Tell me you had to do it. Tell me it was them or you._

Sam was the only one so far who could hold back the Mark for Dean, but even that had its limits. Sometimes, when it was just the two of them alone in the Bunker, the sight of his brother's face or the noise of him moving around in the next room would set Dean off. He would have to stalk off to his room, throwing in his earbuds to drown out the violence in his mind. The music and the solitude would help for a time, but the burn under his skin would build up again. Dean could feel it with his eyes closed, sitting like a terrible red bud under the pale skin of his forearm, ready to bloom into something bloody.

Cain's hand brought him back into the moment as it pushed him over the bench, running up the knobs of his spine. Dean moved with the touch, folding his upper body over the padded platform. His fingers wrapped around the wooden legs, and he closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. They snapped open again, when Cain nudged Dean's feet out, opening his legs wide before buckling the restraints around his ankles and wrists. 

“Comfortable?” Cain asked.

“Just get on with it,” Dean gritted out. 

Cain trailed his long fingers along Dean's flank, like he was settling a racehorse, and followed behind with the bamboo switch which feathered softly over the curve of his ass. The light touch and the wait for that first strike was unbearable. Dean squirmed against the leather padding of the bench, his cock hanging loose and untouched between his legs, with nothing to protect it.

“Let's agree to twenty strokes. I'm sure you can handle that.”

There was no other prep before he heard the snap of the first stroke or felt its thin line of pain.

Dean had known pain all his life. Shot, stabbed, and bones broken. The sharp pain of injury and the dull ache of recovery. And that was before the forty years he spent in Hell. That pain was so unimaginable that he couldn't look directly at it. The memories were tucked away, as fuzzy and indistinct as he could make them in a dark corner of his mind. 

The sting of the blade-like edge was intense. Not the worst thing he ever felt, but enough to make him grunt and curl his toes. He blew out a breath as the second stroke landed higher on his cheeks. 

“Fuck!” The pain of the next three strokes didn't get easier. Cain walked around to the side and rubbed his hand against the warm area he had just swatted on Dean's ass, then ran his fingers down to the back of Dean's thighs. The soft touch across that heat went right to Dean's cock, and he rattled his cuffs and went on his toes to get away from it.

“Oh, you like that?” Cain said, as he pulled away.

Dean knew that he had always been fucked up when it came to pain. Some crossed wire in his brain couldn't tell the difference between sex and a beating. The best kind of sex came after the adrenaline high from a hunt, with fingers digging into raw wounds and forming bone-deep bruises. Dean would drop his dad at the motel, and cruise the streets of whatever town they were in, looking for a specific kind of bar, where the crowd gave hard looks and had eager eyes. With Dean's looks, it was never tough to pick out someone who would go rough in the shadows of the back alley, or fuck hard in the Impala and then go back inside to drink with their friends. 

If John noticed that Dean came back to the room with more bruises than when he left, he never said.

But that changed when Sam was back. When they kissed for the first time, after the wendigo hunt in Colorado, he stopped looking for someone to hone his rough edges because Sam needed the same thing as Dean. They understood each other, that need to own and be owned by someone, biting and hard in the moment, and then know that the other would be fine the next day. 

And yet, Sam would pull back at times. There was a line for him between rough sex and thoughtful, intentional pain. Even if he asked, Dean wasn't sure if Sam had it in him to do that. The potential was there, Dean could feel it in his brother's strong hands and the force of his voice.

“Can you see it yet, Dean?”

He didn't have a chance to ask what the hell he was supposed to see before Cain began the next round of strikes. These were softer, more of a tapping. Cain was restrained now - showboating his mastery of pain. Perhaps he and Cain had more in common than he thought - two creatures who were twisted into shiny sharpness by Hell.

“Don't be a dick. Keep going,” Dean said.

Cain put force into it, placing the blows closer to where Dean’s ass met his thighs, where the nerve clusters were more sensitive, and despite himself, tears came to Dean's eyes and began to fall on the floor below. His cock responded to the heat coursing through his belly, and his balls tightened in anticipation of the next hit. He rattled the restraints in frustration, his thighs trying to pull together, to protect himself, to pull away. He closed his eyes and only one face came to mind, surfacing like a bubble in the boil.

“Sam,” he whispered. His body went limp with realization. He was going through this to protect Sam, but underneath it all, he wanted his brother to be the one holding the switch. Not to help him, but to punish, and once again, Sam was pulling back from what needed to be done.

Images of Kevin, Cas, and Gadreel flipped through his mind like cards in a deck. And throughout, there were thoughts of Sam. _I see a light at the end of this tunnel._

Dean was unaware of the tears that continued to fall but now he leaned into each new stroke, arching his back to feel it all the way down his body. Cain seemed to notice the change, no longer a showman but someone eager to finish.

After eighteen, the Knight leaned over him on the bench, his hand dropping between Dean's legs to feel his balls which were painfully tight and his cock which had begun to drip. The feel of Cain's wool trousers as they brushed against the switch lines made Dean cry out, the pain like an electric shock.

“Close your eyes and let yourself go.”

And so he did. Dean clenched his eyes and stretched his spine. The heat along his ass felt like fire, and those flames were soaking into his core, pulsing as if his heart was in his testicles. A floating feeling came over him, as if he was disconnected, witnessing the pain from a soft, warm place. 

He dropped his head down and the last two strikes were heard more than felt. Come splattered on the floor beneath him, his body clenching and spasming in relief. A drowsy feeling came over Dean and he couldn't keep his eyes open.

***

He woke up, alone and naked on the couch. A blanket was wrapped around him, and a glass of water sat on the coffee table in front of him. Next to the glass was a long package wrapped in brown paper, with a simple note written in a large flourish that said, “For Sam”.

The house around him was empty and Cain had disappeared again. No doubt that the next time he saw the Knight, it would be because Cain wanted to be found.

Dean sat up gingerly, the bruising on his ass still sore. He started to sip on the water when it dawned on him. Setting the glass down, he looked at the Mark on his arm. The burn was gone and it appeared a light pink rather than the angry red of the previous week.

He pulled the long package onto his lap and unwrapped the paper. A cluster of rattan switches was bound in twine, with a note meant for Sam tucked in between the thin sticks. 

“If I see your brother again, it won't go as well, so make sure that you give him what he needs.”


	2. Feel The Black

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean is back home and needs Sam to step up.

“No.”

“Sam--” Dean blushed and reached out to touch the open brown paper package from Cain that sat on the library table.

“I said no, Dean.” 

Sam stalked off, down the steps into the War Room and walked off towards his bedroom, shoulders hunched forward, and Dean felt that thin bright thread of hope he had been holding onto since his return unravel.

The two of them had dozens of arguments in this same spot, but there was always a predictable give-and-take to them. Dean would say no, definitely not, and make some over the top statement and then Sam would push back, offering up some bullshit logical argument that Dean would hate but ultimately agree with. Point-set-match in the game they played. It was what they did.

Now, watching Sam's back disappear around the corner threw him off, because dammit, this wasn't how things should go. Sam was the one who wanted to talk about this shit. Sam should be glad that Dean was asking for his help, that he found a reasonable solution. 

Yet here was Dean, left standing alone in the library, feeling scraped out and raw. For the first time in a week, the Mark on his arm pulsed and stung like a hundred bees under the skin. When he closed his eyes, an image of his hands wrapped around Sam's neck, squeezing tight while his brother flailed under him, filled his mind and settled dark and satisfying around his heart. 

He shook his head and scratched at his forearm. 

“Well, fuck you too, Sam.” 

***

Emptying another clip, Dean set the gun down on the shooting range counter and brought the target back towards him. Normally, he practiced with his Colt but today, nothing satisfied like the muscular recoil and muzzle blast of the Smith & Wesson with its .357 loads. He pulled down the paper from the clips and examined the hits. Not just a tight pattern but giant holes ripped into the paper, as big as a man’s eyes. 

He was running his fingers over the ragged edges on the paper when a hand gripped his shoulder. He ripped the headphones off his head, to dangle around his neck.

“Dammit, Sam, don't sneak up on me. You know better than that.”

His brother wore that pissed off-irritated-concerned look on his face that seemed to be permanent since the Mark came into their lives. It was a look that wormed its way under Dean’s skin feeding his near-constant buzz of anger.

 _Not the best time to pull this shit, Sammy_.

“Been calling you. For hours.”

“Just blowing off a little steam.”

Sam looked at the shredded target in Dean's hands, the clustered head shots that had obliterated the black profile on the paper. “Yeah, I see that.”

Dean clipped up a new target, sending the mechanism back down the line, and Sam watched as he loaded another clip in the gun. 

“Is there something you wanted?” Dean said, pulling the headphones back on. 

The soft careful way his brother watched him in that moment tamped the anger tight in Dean’s chest and made it burrow deep in his spine. The compulsion to draw blood was climbing so he did what he could. He fired until the clip was empty and part of the target fluttered to the ground.

When he turned around, Sam was gone.

***

The nights were the worst for Dean, filled with dreams splashed with blood and ending in violence, and so he walked the Bunker halls after half a bottle of Jack. He paced across the cold tile cutting a path to the kitchen, the library, the garage and back again to the bedrooms before starting the path all over again. 

His bare feet didn't make any noise as he stopped in front of Sam's room. 

The door was cracked open. Whether it was an invitation to talk or an oversight didn't really matter. He didn't knock but flexed his fingers against the wood, swinging it open. The old hinges creaked and gave him away. 

“Dean?” 

A sliver of light showed where his brother sat upright in bed, muscular arms holding his hair back from his face as Sam blinked against the dim hallway light. As Dean approached the bed, he yanked his t-shirt off and dropped it on the floor. The mattress dipped as he crawled onto it and Sam's expression in the half-light became wary.

“It's late.”

“Don't care.” Dean straddled Sam's lap, pinning his legs down, and nuzzled into his hairline. Sam didn’t react at first, sitting there stiff and uncertain, leaning away until Dean sucked on the lobe of his ear and Sam gave him the grunt and surrender he was looking for.

When Sam softened into his hold, Dean grabbed the sides of his face to pull him to the right angle, pushing in with a filthy kiss and grinding down hard, the blankets a tangled mess between them. 

Sam's moans were all the permission Dean needed to keep going. He grabbed Sam’s shoulders and pushed him flat on the mattress. Dean looked down at him and could feel Sam tremble between his thighs. There were times when Sam pushed back and fought Dean for control, and then there were times like this when his headstrong, beautiful brother would fall apart under his hands. The Mark flared bright and clear as Sam laid down and Dean’s cock grew diamond hard.

He swooped in and claimed Sam’s lips again, smiling as Sam’s hips bucked up beneath him. The wall of silence that had built up between them this week crumbled away as Sam moaned and thrashed under him.

“Fuck, Dean, yeah, just like that.” 

“So noisy, little brother,” he said as he licked a stripe up Sam’s neck.

Crawling into each other's bed in the dark was what had started this thing between them when they were younger. Back then, there was three feet of space between two motel beds, a space that was easy to cross to get what you needed. The Bunker gave them privacy but the long walk down that hall gave them too much time to think. 

Dean pulled the covers away, leaving nothing between the two of them but thin layers of cotton. He began to roll his hips slow and solid against Sam’s cock, and smiled at the stream of fond obscenities from Sam. His hands made their way up to Sam’s neck, and he rubbed his thumb across the bulge of the Adam's apple there. From where his thumb sat, he could feel the vibrations of Sam’s voice and the gallop of his heart beating. The pulse was fast and the bones under his fingers felt delicate, bird-like, easy to snap. Dean pressed his thumbs together to raise Sam's chin up and bent down to kiss him deeply. Sam moaned around his tongue, and he responded by squeezing those bird bones in his throat.

They had done this before a few times and he remembered how Sam would make such a pretty picture, eyelashes resting dark and damp against his cheeks as his pink lips opened in quiet gasps. Sam would squirm with the lack of oxygen and hump his erection mindlessly against Dean’s thigh, until he came spurting across their stomachs. 

“Sam,” he whispered at the memory of Sam, unaware as his fingers flexed and pressed.

Looking down at real Sam below him, the picture was wrong. Instead of closed eyes and soft gasps, Sam's eyes were open, edges showing white and scrunched at the corners, and he was shoving back at Dean's shoulders. 

“Dean, stop,” Sam gasped.

Sam’s voice was a buzz in his ear as Dean rode out a wave of heat sent out through his body by the Mark. He thought of Cain and his own release on the rack in that farmhouse. 

_Can you see it?_

He could still feel Cain’s hand squeezing his cock, and he squeezed Sam's throat in response, and pushed forward to reclaim Sam's lips, to stop the buzz, to find that same release.

A hard slap snapped his head back and he let go. Even in the dim light from the hall, he could see the dark imprint of where his fingers had been around Sam’s throat and he was helpless as his brother sputtered to take in air. Sam sat up and Dean scrambled off the bed. 

“What the fuck, Dean?” Sam scooted backward until he was pressed against the headboard, his hand reaching under the pillow. Dean followed the motion and went cold, knowing what Sam kept hidden there. Sam stopped, and those big hazel eyes, the one thing that had provided a clear compass for Dean - the picture of right and wrong, amusement and anger, love and forgiveness - were now guarded and unknown.

Dean stalked out of the bedroom, putting even more distance between him and his brother.

***

Walking into the library the next night, Sam slammed down a different brown bag on the table in front of Dean. 

That morning they had tiptoed around each other in the Bunker kitchen, broody and silent, until Sam left. No goodbyes, no texts, no calls for another day and Dean started to climb the walls, thinking of the bruised skin around Sam’s neck. He wanted to say that he was sorry, afraid to admit that he wanted more of that feeling, and now he wondered if Sam was gone for good.

He hit a local bar for a few hours before Crowley showed up. When he didn’t bite at the King of Hell’s sarcastic comments or jabs at Sam, the demon moved along. The locals shooting pool and serving drinks didn’t provide the distraction he hoped for, so he drove back to the Bunker. 

If he took the long way, circling through the surrounding towns and back roads, looking for the old beige beater car that Sam was driving, it didn’t mean anything.

Dean looked at the bag in front of him and then up at Sam’s eyes. Any distress from the night before was replaced by steely determination and Dean’s gut flipped. 

_This is it. This is when he finally leaves_. 

“We need to talk.”

“Thanks for stating the obvious there, Sam.” 

He looked past his brother’s shoulder to the trash can in the corner of the library where the other brown-papered bundle from Cain sat, the bamboo switches sticking up upright like some decorative vase at a victim’s house in the suburbs.

“If we do this--” 

Dean’s head snapped back up at those words, and a muscle along Sam's jaw twitched as he took a breath.

“--then we do it my way.” 

Sam grabbed the bag off the table and walked off, turning right towards the garage and store rooms. Dean tapped his pencil against the table top for a few seconds, before pushing the book he was reading on tattoo removal to the side and following Sam’s lead down the hall.

***

A table had been dragged into the middle of the dungeon. It was the same one that they had chained Crowley to for months. Now, Dean was the monster that Sam need to take care of. 

The brown paper bag sat on a corner of the table, next to a pile of rope.

“You always liked rope better, right?”

Dean nodded a vague affirmation, stepping over to the table and running his fingers along the edge. Sturdy and wooden, it probably would hold his weight, and the rope was rough, not like the smooth silk rope or metal handcuffs they had played with before; it was something that would rub and break the skin. 

_Good_.

“Yes or no? I need to hear you say it.” Sam looked so serious and so young that Dean wanted to laugh. 

“Yeah, Sam, rope is fine.” He pulled his t-shirt over his head and dropped it on the dungeon floor. He turned to face Sam, eyes dark and hooded as if this was a seduction.

“Fine.” Sam shoved him down face first on the table so hard that Dean’s cheek bounced, but Sam didn't notice as he spread Dean out on the table, tying his hands to the table legs on the far side. Dean’s arms were stretched apart, his chest pressed flat and his wrists wrapped tight in the rough rope, which was fine. In fact, it was better than fine - it was probably what he deserved. 

He grunted as Sam reached around to unbuckle his jeans and yank them roughly to the middle of his thighs.

Dean was resting his bruised cheek against the table, breathing deeply through his nose, when he heard the crumple of the paper bag. His balls tightened and his cock filled as he waited, trussed and poised for whatever Sam felt like doing. 

“You should have asked me first.” Sam's voice was quiet behind him. “Me. Not Cain.”

“I didn't know,” Dean replied. He wasn’t sure what he had expected from Cain in that farmhouse. A pep talk. A mantra. Some kind of charm or incantation. Maybe an offer to take the Mark back.

He was such an idiot.

Something soft trailed over his ass and back, and for a moment, Dean felt disappointed. Maybe Sam didn't understand that he needed the pain to focus, to strip away his urge for violence that continued to grow like a virus inside him everyday. 

There was a whip-snap of leather.

“Not gonna use what he sent.” There was another swish and snap, before Sam trailed the leather tails over Dean’s lower back.

 _Flogger_. 

He shivered at the thought of the leather-covered handle gripped in Sam's big hand, the tresses hanging down at his side. Before Dean could speak, Sam kicked his legs further apart and he complied, maintaining the awkward posture stretched across the table. 

The first stroke felt light, an uncomfortable tingle like the snap of rubber bands, and Dean shifted against the cold wood beneath his chest.

“Don't move.” Sam's voice was deep and rough, far from the soft concern he heard from his brother since taking on the Mark. 

_Finally, manning up, Sammy?_

Dean's dick throbbed at the thought. As soft as the leather was on the flogger, the sting across his back was like the bite of shark teeth and made Dean hiss as the strokes continued to land. 

This was different from that first time with Cain. The bamboo switch delivered a thin line of pain. This was spread out over his skin, burning and stinging, and unlike Cain and his mastery of the strokes, Sam was putting all his frustration behind it. 

Dean should have been concerned. All that muscle that Sam kept hidden away under layers of clothes could do some damage with a flogger but he trusted his brother. Hell, knowing Sam, the kid probably asked the store clerk a thousand questions and tested the flogger out a few times. 

The strokes went on, longer and more thorough than the ones that Cain delivered. Dean surrendered himself up to whatever Sam decided was necessary, what was right, and giving up that control made the pain become more distant and he felt himself moving towards that floating sense of peace in his head. His legs sagged and his shoulders slumped, and even his mouth went slack.

More hard strokes landed before Sam stopped. He could hear his brother’s panting breaths and Dean felt a dribble of his own precome run down his inner thigh. The rope that held his wrists in place was rubbing the skin raw and he twisted them to feel another flare of pain run up his spine. He began to rut soft and lazy against the hard edge of the table.

“Sam,” Dean said, his tongue thick between his teeth.

“You need to trust me,” Sam said. His voice sounded distant like it was coming out of a tunnel but Dean could hear the hitch of emotion in it. Sam's hand ran along Dean’s flank tenderly.

“Don't stop,” Dean pleaded. “You can't stop now, Sammy.”

“Then say it.” The steel was back in Sam's voice and that woke Dean back up.

He squirmed on the table, his cockhead bumping uselessly, getting no friction against the side of the table. His ass and back ached and he was on the edge. “Fuck, Sam, what? Say what?” 

“Say you trust me. You want me. Not him.”

He closed his eyes and pressed his cheek down. “It's always you, Sam. No one else.”

“Good.” Sam laid in another hard five strokes on both of his ass cheeks, and Dean hissed at the pain. Sam ran his hand over the ridges of Dean's abused skin, getting another shudder out of him, but then dropped his hands away. Dean thunked his head against the wood twice as he heard Sam unzip his pants and the unmistakable sound of skin on skin as Sam began to jack off behind him. The sounds Sam made called out to him to touch Sam and to see Sam touch himself. He started to twist around when Sam slammed him flat against the table again.

“Stay down.” His voice was deep and dripping with the kind of command Sam rarely used and it sent a shiver straight up Dean's spine. 

Dean stopped moving under the pressure, despite his aching cock, and listened to Sam's panting behind him and the sound of his hand on his cock, stripping the flesh furiously. “Fuck, Dean, you look so good like this.”

Dean’s balls tightened up as he heard the tell-tale hitch of Sam's breath and one of Sam's hands gripped his hip to pull him closer.

“Fuck, Dean. I'm gonna-- I'm gonna--” Sam moved closer and Dean felt the warm spurt of Sam's come land over his ass. With a final groan, one more spurt spilled across his back close to where Sam’s hand pressed into his spine.

After a few shaky breaths, Sam's long fingers began to trace the wet trails along Dean’s skin. He rubbed the come into the welts and Dean tried to move away from the heat and the sting, which made his erection bump against the table edge.

“That hurt?” Sam said. He sounded as dazed as Dean felt, but didn't stop swirling his fingers through the mess on Dean’s back.

 _Marking me_. 

He arched his back as Sam's fingers moved further down and dragged some of the release down into Dean’s crack, rubbing and pressing the wet fingerpad against his hole, slipping the tip inside, thrusting it in and out, but it was too shallow to get to where Dean needed it. 

_Fucking tease_. 

Sam pulled it back out and ran two fingers through the slick clinging to Dean's back, dragging them down his skin before pushing them inside. A few thrusts and Sam found the spot and Dean jerked his body in response and babbled his brother's name over and over.

Sam didn't speed up but kept the strokes steady and Dean clenched his fists. “Fuck Sam, I need it. I need you.”

Sam reached around to where Dean's cock still hung hard between his legs. He took Dean in hand and began stroking, getting a surprised grunt as he moved his come-slick fingers to get a better hold.

“Easy, I got ya.” 

He kissed Dean's shoulder but sped up the strokes. It didn't take long for Dean to clench up, responding to the electrical current that was still running along his skin from where the flogger hit and the strength of Sam's grip around his dick. It was too much and Dean choked down a shout as he came all over Sam’s hand and the floor.

 _Shit. I need to stop doing that_ , he thought with a laugh. He raised his head to look at the Mark, calm and pink against his freckled skin.

He could hear Sam walking away from him and there was a moment of panic that cut bright through the exhaustion he felt, but Sam was back a moment later cutting through the ropes around his wrists.

Sam picked him up and spun him around, bracing him against the table. He grabbed his jaw and looked into Dean’s eyes, and must have been satisfied with what he saw before turning to examine the rope burns around his wrists. 

“You okay?” Sam's voice rose up at the end as he continued to look at Dean’s wrist.

“Yeah, Sammy, ‘m okay.” 

When Sam didn't let go, Dean pulled his arms away but Sam caught the right one. He rolled it to the side and looked down at the Mark.

“Are we good, Dean?” Sam's forehead crinkled once more in concern and he continued to stroke his thumb on the inside of Dean's elbow.

Dean leaned forward, resting their foreheads together. “Yeah, Sam. I think we're good for now.”


End file.
